How odd is that

How odd is that dot,

That ends the sentence that wanted to ask questions,

That wanted to appreciate with exclamation,

And break with a semicolon,

But live a little longer.

How odd is that silence,

That deafens the ears and drains the heart,

That fills the eyes and breaks the ice,

That says no more,

And says so pure.

How odd is that mind,

That makes you grind,

That takes you hind,

To push you fore,

That drops you in fire,

To wake you up with desires.

How odd is life,

That goes so slow

And often so low,

But springs back up,

Higher and louder,

Stronger and lighter.

How odd is what is meant to be,

Sometimes is the only resort we seek,

As if the power of our being was always meant to exist,

And the flames over our heart was never meant to extinguish.

How odd is being me,

And understand ‘I’,

Fight for respect and stand up against lies,

Go that deep that the sun still shine,

And the rain finds its skies.

How odd is being you,

And understand me,

Respect me,

And our space as we,

Because even if we are meant to be,

How slim are the chances that we might ever be?